


Someday Soon

by consulting_fangirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Post-Richenbach, Reverse richenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-04 15:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1783777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_fangirl/pseuds/consulting_fangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would life had been like if someone else took the fall?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock couldn't do it.

Logically, it should be easy. After all, it's only seventeen steps that Sherlock needs to take to reach 221B. But he simply couldn't.

He stood at the foot of the stairs, doing nothing, just staring at them. His feet felt as if they were made of lead, which Sherlock knew to be impossible, and yet he did nothing to stop a thought like that to rush through his mind.

Someone closed the door to 221 behind him. Possibly Mrs Hudson. Sherlock's mind was too preoccupied to remember that Mrs Hudson had left that afternoon for her sister's. There were more important things to think about.

A hand came to rest on his shoulder. A strong, steady hand which wasn't shaking. If Sherlock looked down, he would notice that his own were shaking quite violently. He turned his head slowly to the hand on his shoulder. His eyes continued to follow the arm attached to it until he saw the face of Lestrade. Sherlock noted that Lestrade's eyes were filled with an aching sadness, there were more lines to his face now, and he looked exhausted. The last case had drained him. It had drained the entirety of Lestrade's team. It was tough, for everyone. Especially Sherlock.

Sherlock's changeable eyes met Lestrade's hazel ones. He gave Sherlock a weak smile, before giving Sherlock's shoulder, what he assumed was supposed to be a reassuring squeeze. He removed his hand and made his way slowly up the stairs to 221B, leaving Sherlock still stood at the bottom of the stairs.

 _Get it together_. Sherlock scolded himself internally. _This isn't what he would have wanted._

He had done so well all day. He hadn't broken down, and had managed to hold himself together in front of everyone. And there had been so many people. Any other day, Sherlock would have been proud of himself for behaving. But not today. He took in a deep breath and began to ascend the stairs.

Each step felt like an enormous effort, and by the time he reached the top, he was exhausted.

Lestrade was already moving around the flat, tidying the papers that littered the floor. And the desk. And the kitchen table. Pretty much every available surface. Lestrade moved into the kitchen, and out of Sherlock's vision.

One again, Sherlock was frozen. He couldn't bring himself to enter the flat. He envied the ease with which Lestrade just seemed to glide into the flat as if it wasn't emptied of life.

The trembling in Sherlock's hands spread like ice up his arms, through his shoulders and down his spine, until his whole body was shivering as if he'd spent the whole day in the Arctic conditions of London in winter without his beloved Belstaff coat.

Suddenly, the light was too bright, and there was a pricking sensation in his eyes. He forced them closed against the intrusion and tried to control his body as it continued to shake. But it was hopeless. There was no chance of control. Not now. Probably not ever again.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock heard Lestrade's footsteps move towards him.

There was a trail of unexplainable warmth down Sherlock's cheeks as he screwed his eyes even more tightly shut. It was becoming more difficult to breathe. Air entered into his lungs in great gasps. The trail of warmth, Sherlock realised, were his own tears. He wasn't just crying, he was sobbing. His chest felt like is was trapped in a giant vice, and every time he tried to take another gasping breath it was pulled tighter. It was not in his mind, it was a physical pain. His stomach rolled and cramped as another sob wracked through his body. He wrapped his arms around himself. His head dropped so he was completely curled in.

The same hand that had rested on his shoulder at the bottom of the stairs was now joined by it's twin, supporting his weight as he collapsed against the wall. The hands guided him down until he was sat on the landing with his back up against the wall as he continued to cry.

"Hey, Sherlock. Look at me."

Sherlock couldn't. It was impossible. If he opened his eyes, he would have to face the facts, he'd have to accept that this was real. If he kept his eyes closed, a least he could pretend.

"I can't."

"Yes you can."

One of the hands moved from his arm to the nape of his neck, forcing his head to turn towards Lestrade's voice.

"Sherlock, you've done so well today. You've been incredibly brave and I understand that it hurts, God knows I do. It's killing me to see you like this but need you to look at me."

Sherlock complied, peeling his eyes open slowly, allowing himself to adjust to the harsh sunlight that was streaming through the windows. Of course it would be sunny today. Pathetic fallacy was an occurrence only found in romantic literature, not in the life of Sherlock Holmes.

His vision was blurred due to the excess moisture in his eyes. As he made out the fuzzy shape of Lestrade, the tears spilled over. He wiped them off his cheeks with his fist, body too tense to uncurl his fingers, turning away from Lestrade as he did so. One look at the shock and pity on the DI's face had been enough for Sherlock to guess just how broken he must look.

Greg straightened up and held his hands out to he man before him.

"Come on, we should probably get you into the flat."

"I _can't._ "

"Sherlock, you need to-"

"You don't understand. Everything we were is in that flat. It's embedded into the wood of the table, it's woven into the fabric of the cushions. It's in the dust, the wallpaper, the very air. Everything is tainted with memories of _him_. It's bad enough that I had to bury him today, but please don't make me face the ghosts of our past. I'm not ready to do that."

Greg knew what Sherlock meant. When he'd entered the flat, the wave of grief that washed over him was so powerful it overwhelmed him and he'd nearly turned around and walked straight back out. But he'd needed to remain strong - or appear to be - for Sherlock's sake.

He turned until he was leaning against the wall, and then slid down until he was sat side by side with the world's only Consulting Detective. Gone was the high-functioning sociopath. In his place was a broken man, with eyes so empty it made Greg's heart clench. It was scary to see this man - once so great, quick and aloof - reduced to this. And there was nothing he could do, and that made Greg feel totally useless. He ran his hands through his short, silver hair.

"It was my fault." The voice was so quiet and timid that Greg could hardly believe it was coming from the man next to him. Sherlock had taken his face out of his hands, which were now resting of his knees drawn up to his chest. At full height, Sherlock Holmes was often rather intimidating. In this state, he couldn't even intimidate a mouse. His eyes - usually so analytical as they took in every piece of information available to them - were staring at nothing, completely blank. It was disconcerting.

"No, Sherlock."

"If I had just told him what he meant to me as a friend."

"Sherlock, this was nobody's fault."

"I should have realised that he could never just get over the PTSD, the depression."

"Sherlock-"

"He was my best friend. My only friend. And he died thinking his life was worthless. He died thinking it couldn't get better."

The sobbing began again. Although it helped to relieve some of the pain, it did nothing t fill the hole in his life, the flat, his heart. A hole that was created the moment his best friend took the step off of St Bart's hospital. The hole that could never be filled. Only one person could fill that hole, and Sherlock had just attended his funeral. Only John Watson was capable of making Sherlock feel complete.


	2. Chapter 2

Simple. Black stone. Gold lettering.

_John Hamish Watson. Soldier, Doctor, Friend._

It was situated just under the shade of a tree, a solitary protrusion from the grassy covering of the ground around it.

He wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

But it was still painful for Sherlock as he and Mrs Hudson approach the elegant black stone which marked where his best friend now resided. There were flowers. Lots of them. Roses (from Mrs Hudson), lilies (from Lestrade), sunflowers (from Molly), carnations (from Sarah). They were laid over the grassy patch which lay before the smooth stone that jutted from the ground at such a harsh angle.

He would have liked the sunflowers best, Sherlock thought. They would have reminded him of happiness. He would have wanted people to be happy, not sad or worried.

But happiness was impossible now. Sherlock was a broken man. The sunflowers were now taunting him instead of comforting.

Bees seemed particularly attracted to the yellow petals, and three or four flew lazily from one flower to the next as they collected pollen and nectar from their precious findings.

The two companions stood in silence, just watching the light reflect off of the polished surface of the grave. Just a hint of sunlight danced through the cloudy skies that were typical of an afternoon in London.

Mrs Hudson was hyper-aware of the man stood next to her, sensing that he did not want to talk. He had not wanted to talk sine the day the stone was put in place. He seemed entirely focused on the words that were now immortal. Soldier, Doctor, Friend. But he had been so much more to Sherlock. There was not a name for what had happened between them, but friend just did not seem to cover it. Sherlock's face was not schooled into an expression of indifference, as it so often was. It looked entirely full of... nothingness. That was the only word she could produce to describe it. His eyes were empty, as if he was staring straight through the gravestone. But there were small creases by his eyes, which Mrs Hudson knew was a sign that Sherlock was desperately trying to hold back tears.

She could not stand there and watch Sherlock fall apart slowly. And she knew Sherlock would not wish her to witness it either, preferring to work through his emotional torments alone. As he had once told her: Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.

Without saying a word, Mrs Hudson patted Sherlock's arm lightly, before turning and walking back up the path to the waiting, black car that Mycroft had provided for their visit. It was their first one since the funeral.

Sherlock registered Mrs Hudson walk away, but did not turn, he did not even move. He just continued to stare at the grave - John's grave.

He had never thought of it in that way. John's grave. It made it seem all to real. It made it seem that John really had jumped from the roof of Bart's. That his best friend was so desperately unhappy that he chose to end his life rather that live and let Sherlock try to help.

Sherlock closed his eyes against the tears that betrayed that inside he was being torn into shreds. Nothing had ever hurt like this.

But with his eyes closed, all he could see was John on the rooftop, hear John's voice as they spoke on the phone.

 

_John, stood on the edge of the roof. Sherlock, just stood there, helpless on the pavement below._

_"John, what on earth are you doing? Get down."_

_"I can't, Sherlock."_

_"Don't be an idiot, John. It's just two steps backwards. You've never been an idiot, I know you know that."_

_"Sherlock, I can't come down."_

_"Yes you can."_

_"I've been thinking about this for a while now-"_

_"No."_

_"-and there's nothing anyone can o to change my mind."_

_"John, please. Just come down. We'll talk about this, I promise, just get down."_

_"I'm a deeply unhappy man, Sherlock."_

_"That's it, I'm coming to get you."_

_Sherlock taking a few steps forward._

_"No. Stay exactly where you are. Don't move. Can you do this for me?"_

_John's arm reaching out, begging for him to stay in place._

_"Alright."_

_Sherlock holding his hands up in surrender, moving back into place._

_"John, I-"_

_"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I would have left a note-"_

_"John-"_

_"-but I think this phone call should suffice."_

_"-please."_

_"You won't miss me, no-one will."_

_"That's a lie and you know it."_

_John's laughter rang in his ears._

_"I'm sorry. Goodbye, Sherlock."_

_"No."_

_John throwing his phone. John reaching out his arms, like a bird about to take flight. But John didn't have wings. John taking that step. The step that would end his life._

_"JOHN!"_

_Sherlock shouting at the top of his voice, so loudly it hurt. John free-falling through the air. Sherlock, following him with his eyes. John vanishing from sight behind the ambulance station. Gone. Sherlock automatically moving forward to reach him. Sherlock getting knocked down by a cyclist. Sherlock pulling himself up, moving forward again. Sherlock turning the corner._

_John Watson's body on the pavement. John Watson's blood soaking the white stone. John Watson's lifeless eyes staring into nothingness._

_Sherlock Holmes's life shattering._

_A crowd gathering. Sherlock pushing through._

_"Let me through. Please. He's my friend. He's my only friend. Please."_

_Sherlock looking for a pulse, and finding none._

 

 _"_ I'm sorry, John."

Sherlock's voice cracked as he addressed the stone.

"I'm sorry I couldn't help you. I'm sorry for not recognising that you were unhappy. I'm sorry for being, probably the worst flatmate imaginable. I'm sorry I never asked. I'm sorry I drugged your coffee at Baskerville. I'm sorry for the experiments in the kitchen. I'm sorry for the body parts in the fridge. I'm sorry for always waking you at 3am with my violin. I'm sorry I ruined so many of your dates. I'm sorry I couldn't save you."

Sherlock bought a hand up to wipe the treacherous tears from his face. Only after he'd wiped them did he remember that there was no-one here to witness them.

And with that, Sherlock turned to rejoin Mrs Hudson and go back to Baker Street. It was not going back home. Baker Street without John was no longer home.

 

***

 

From a safe distance away, and guarded by the shadow of a towering oak tree, a very much alive John Watson looked on as his best friend walked away from his grave, still wiping away his tears. He wanted nothing more that to walk up to the man, to put his arms around him, apologise an go back home. But that was impossible - not whilst Moriarty's network was still fully operational.

_"I'm sorry I couldn't save you."_

_Oh, Sherlock,_  John thought.  _You've done more than enough. Now it's time for me to return the favour._

John turned with military precision and did, what he'd come to know as, the hardest thing he'd ever have to do.

He walked away from his life. From his family. From his work. And most importantly, from Sherlock.

 _Someday,_  he thought,  _I'll come back. Someday soon, I'll come home._


	3. Chapter 3

Greg dialled again.

_"You've reached the voicemail of Sherlock Holmes. I would apologise for not being able to take your call but what I'm doing to prevent this is probably far more interesting. Leave a message and I'll see whether you're worth my time."_

"Dammit, Sherlock," the greying detective swore under his breath. If there was one thing on this planet that Greg Lestrade was best at it was cursing under his breath, and he had one person to thank for it.

_"You've reached the voicemail of Sherlock Holmes. I would apologise for not being able to take your call but what I'm doing to prevent this is probably far more interesting. Leave a message and I'll see whether you're worth my time."_

Greg hung up again. It was his fifth attempt in fifteen minutes. He decided a trip to Baker Street was in order.

It had been over five months since John had died. Three weeks ago Sherlock had locked himself in 221B and had not emerged at all. Not even for a case.

It was incredibly unhealthy, and Greg had been trying for months to get him out of the flat but to no avail. Every time he tried to reach Sherlock on his mobile, it rang straight through to voicemail. Clearly Sherlock hadn't bothered charging his phoned.

If it weren't for the fact that Sherlock let him into the flat whenever he visited personally, Greg would have ended up summoning Mycroft to sort his younger brother out.

As it turned out, Mycroft needed no summons. Whenever Greg visited Sherlock, he would often find Mycroft sat in Sherlock's armchair, but never John's. Sherlock did not allow anyone to sit in John's chair, ever. He wasn't eating, that much was obvious.

He was alarmingly thin, and yet, by some miracle, was still alive and and able to function.

He wasn't sleeping well, if the dark circles under his eyes were anything to go by.

Sherlock wasn't even speaking. That was what terrified Greg the most. The fact that the lanky, curly haired genius who loved the sound of his own voice more than his brother, was refusing to utter even a single syllable.

The whole situation caused Greg to feel out of his depth, it was not only Sherlock who suffered from sleepless nights, and on more than one occasion had found himself at Baker Street in the middle of the night to make sure that Sherlock wasn't doing anything stupid. There was no need, of course. Mycroft had the whole placed bugged and if Sherlock did anything - reach for a gun, or a bottle of pills, or a needle - the flat would be swarming with bodyguards and medical professionals within seconds. But Greg needed to check himself. He needed the physical proof, that reassurance that no grainy CCTV image could supply.

More often than not when Greg visited, he was curled up on the sofa with his back to the world, either asleep or in that ridiculous mind palace of his.

On occasions though, Sherlock would be composing.

On this particular visit, Sherlock was stood at the window, staring out into Baker Street, watching life flurry past whilst letting his own waste away as he was consumed by grief and guilt.

Greg entered the flat. Absolutely nothing had changed since John had died, expect from the thick layer of dust that seemed to have settled onto every non-moving surface in the flat.

"You ever gonna charge your phone, mate?"

Sherlock didn't respond. Greg hadn't expected him to.

"Could've used your input today. Anderson was a bloody nightmare."

Still no response.

"Sherlock you have to leave the flat at some point."

"He does."

Greg turned his attention to Mycroft. Usually, their interactions were kept at a minimum, their only common concern being Sherlock.

"What?"

"He does, I'm fact, leave the flat, Detective Inspector."

Greg was stunned into silence. Sherlock was leaving the flat? And he couldn't even pick up his bloody phone?

"When? You never told me."

"I had no reason to."

Sherlock turned,Not to acknowledge either of them, but to delicatley pick up his violin and raise it to underneath his chin. He closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, and began to play what Greg had entitled in his head 'John's Song'.

It was the most heart wrenching, utterly shattering piece of music that Greg had ever heard, and one look at Mycroft's face told him that the elder Holmes brother was thinking exactly the same thing. Sherlock was pouring all of the emotion that he refused to express in any other way into the composition, and Greg quickly had to leave the room before he became overwhelmed.

He hadn't gone far, just to the stairs before his exhausted body dropped onto the top step, his hands burying themselves into the silver stands atop his head. He could still hear the music floating from he flat. The click of a door closing muffled the music slightly, and then slow, steady footsteps approached him as he sat there, cradling his own head in his hands and trying very hard not to feel the pain that was being communicated through Sherlcok's playing.

"Everyday at 7am, Sherlock goes to visit his grave."

There was no need for Mycroft to elaborate. Greg knew exactly whose grave it was that Sherlock apparently visited on a daily basis.

"What can we do, Mycroft?"

He was reaching the end of his tether. Sherlock clearly did not want to recover from his loss, and Greg could see no way of helping.

"The situation will resolve itself soon enough, Detective Inspector."

Greg scoffed.

"You think everything will fix itself that easily? The man's a wreck. He's not himself. Sherlock Holmes died along John Watson that day and there is nothing we can do about it, so what's the point of even trying?"

Greg slammed his fist into the wall next to him, creating a slight dent in the plaster, and a small graze across his knuckles. Not that he cared, he couldn't even feel it.

The music continued in the background. Even Mycroft had shown no surprise or alarm at the sudden outburst.

"I assure you, Detective Inspector, the situation will resolve itself eventually."

Greg looked up at the man above him. Greg disliked being treated like an idiot, which is what Mycroft was doing by giving him these bloody ridiculous ambiguous statements. Mycroft regarded him, before turning back to attend to his brother. There was something off about what Mycroft was saying, and the way he was going about it, but Greg couldn't put his finger on it, and was too tired to even try.

 _The situation will resolve itself, yeah right,_ Greg thought.

"It's going to take a bloody _miracle_ to get us through this."

There was a harsh screeching noise as Sherlock suddenly cut off his playing. Greg fled back into the room, panicking that some,thing had happened to him. Sherlock had resumed his staring out of the window, and Greg was just about to turn and leave again when he heard it. A small, quiet voice, cracking and raspy from disuse, but could only be coming from one person.

"A miracle," the first words that Sherlock had said in weeks. "Please, John. Just one more miracle."

Miles away, in a small holding cell in Russia, a man was fighting for his survival, fighting to finish what he'd given up everything for, fighting to come home.

John was fighting to be that one miracle that Sherlock so desperately wished for.


	4. Chapter 4

It was early evening in Baker Street as a warm, familiar voice floated through the air.

"You really should get out a bit more, Sherlock, and definitely eat more. I can count your ribs from here."

"What for? There's nothing of interest for me out there, not without your company."

John smiled at Sherlock from across the table, before returning to the newspaper in his hand. The paper was blank, why on Earth would an imaginary paper need information? It wasn't as if Sherlock was going to read it. An imaginary paper to accompany the imaginary man. 

"I always knew you were a sentimental git." The imaginary John laughed fondly. "I don't see why you hide it so very deep, I always liked knowing you were human."

"Yes, well, your opinion hardly matters anymore does it?"

Imaginary John looked fake affronted. 

"I am genuinely wounded and hurt by that you lanky git," he smirked and shot Sherlock a cheeky, knowing wink. The small gesture felt like a knife in Sherlock's gut.

"You should have thought about that before you jumped off a building."

John didn't react.

Sherlock had never intended to go mad, it was just one of those things that crept up on you and by the time you realised , it was too late.

But Sherlock welcomed that madness. How could he reject it if it was bringing him John? Sherlock, of course, knew that it was not actually John. He might have been driven mad with grief (as cliche as it sounded), but he was not an idiot. 

It started about a month after John had jumped. One day Sherlock had just woken up and there he was, sat in his armchair as if he'd never left. Sherlock had run to him, but as John stood to greet him, Sherlock passed straight through him.

"I'm not real, you daft sod. I just thought you needed the company." 

From that moment, the imaginary John had accompanied him everywhere, even to the grave where the real John rested, buried deep I'm the Earth. The only times imaginary John left him were when there were other people present. Sherlock had a tendency to speak out loud to the hallucination, but would still prefer not to do so in other company. Just because Sherlock himself knew he was mad, did not mean he was keen on the idea of everyone else knowing.

"Eat something. For me, please?" 

Sherlock looked back to John, who was staring at him with a pleading expression that closely resembled a small child who wants the last slice of cake.

"If you were real, I'd be worried about your sanity with a face like that," Sherlock retorted as he grudgingly got up from his chair and proceeded to the toaster. 

"It's not my sanity that's in question."

"And who's fault is that I wonder."

"Yours, you bloody prat. You know that this is a stage of the mourning process. A bit extreme in your case but still."

"I still think it's your fault," muttered Sherlock under his breath as he waited for the toast to pop up.

"Pray, tell me why it's my fault."

"You're the one that died. You're the one who left me in this state."

"People die everyday, Sherlock."

"But not my best friend. You were the only friend I had, John. And you didn't just die. You purposefully jumped to your death and you made me stand there and watch. That's how it's your fault."

There was no reply from John, and he wasn't there when Sherlock looked back towards him. There was, however, and unexpected reply from the doorway.

"Oh, Sherlock."

Molly made her way around the table and brought her hands up to his face, wiping at something beneath his eyes and along his cheekbones. It was only then that Sherlock noticed the tears. Damn, he thought he'd stopped crying, but it seemed like his body had other ideas.

"How much did you hear?" Sherlock managed to ask, his voice trembling only slightly.

"Since you got up to make toast." Molly flushed red as she confessed her intrusion. "I did knock, but I don't think you heard. Mrs Hudson let me up."

So, she'd heard rather a lot. But she didn't look at him with pity, or fear, as one would assume someone would if they'd just walked in on you talking to a hallucination of your dead friend. She just looked sad, and if Sherlock had been paying attention, he would have seen the underlying guilt that shadowed her face.

"Please, don't tell anyone." Sherlock never said please. Maybe a few times if he wanted something from John, but usually, pleading was beneath him. Maybe this was why that one word broke Molly's heart a little.

"I won't," the mousy haired girl promised as she continued to wipe his tears. "Sherlock, it's okay to be upset. It's normal - healthy, even - to cry." 

So Sherlock did. Molly pulled him into a tight hug until the worst of it was over. She then managed to manoeuvre him into the living room where she settled him onto the sofa. She draped a blanket over his shoulders before moving back to the kitchen. She returned a few minutes later and pushed a mug of tea into his hands. Sherlock automatically lifted it to his lips. Upon the first swapo he grimaced. Sherlock took sugar in his tea, but this was just too sweet. There could have easily been six or seven spoonfuls in there.

Sherlock knew what Molly was doing. The blanket, the tea, the looking at him with a certain amount of cautiousness that meant she thought he was going to have another breakdown at any second.

"I am not in shock, Molly." He shrugged the blanket from his shoulders.

"I know, I just didn't know what else to do. I'm not the doctor around here-" Molly let out a horrified gasp at what shed just said, tears springing to her own eyes. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean to- I wasn't- I'm sorry."

"It's fine, Molly." 

It wasn't fine, not really. But seeing how he couldn't even handle his own emotions, he didn't want to be dealing with a distraught Molly as well. 

The flat felt suddenly stifling. Everything reminded him of John, and Molly's accidental slip seemed to trigger this. There was too much John - in the flat, in his mind, everywhere.

Maybe everyone was right. He needed to get out of the flat.

"Fancy getting something to eat, Molly?"

Molly blinked up at him, eyes still shining with her unshod tears.

"Everyone's been telling me I need to get out more and actually eat so etching decent, and is way we'd be killing two birds with one stone."

Sherlock didn't like the idea of eating out without John. But he knew he'd have to get over all of his aversions and anxieties sooner or later, and now seemed like a good time to start. Besides, maybe if Mycroft and Lestrade saw him outside and eating, they might leave him alone. Yes, dinner with Molly seemed like a very good plan.

"Sure." Molly looked taken aback with the proposition, but no less eager. 

"There's an Italian restaurant I enjoy just off of Northumberland Street, and the owner owes me a favour." He did not want to explain the sentimental attachment to Angelo's, so left it there.

Molly smiled up at him, looking genuinely pleased at the development of Sherlock's emotional state.

"Well, what are we waiting for?"

And with that, they descended he stairs and headed out into the London night. Sherlock breathed a deep lungful of the chilly air. Being outside again, walking through the streets, observing and deducing people as they went, it was good, refreshing. It cleared his head of the cloud that had fogged his mind with grief and he took the first tentative step towards moving on.

Molly could sense all of this, and knew how difficult it was for the consulting detective to even consider moving on from John's 'death'. Another wave of guilt crashed over her for the part she played in orchestrating John's fall because she saw the pain it caused Sherlock. But she was determined not to think about that. 

Instead she looped one of her arms through Sherlock's, who - surprisingly - raised no arguments, and continued to walk into the night.


	5. Chapter 5

Everyday was a huge effort, and everyday John thought about giving up, just letting the next part of the web finally put an end to his efforts, to finally stop his never ending task. He'd come close a few times, and he was ashamed to admit it.

Every mission started the same. John arrived in a new city, he was given he assignment by one of Mycroft's men after they had given him the code word of the day that signalled the man or woman could be trusted. He'd move into the assigned safe location, before sitting and planning how to get through the next leg of this task of dismantling what was left of Moriarty's network. These individual missions took at least a week, and often involved John getting himself captured to be able to more efficiently infiltrate the organisations and criminal gangs. 

Most of these times, John was beaten, tortured, starved, blindfolded, gagged and physically, verbally and emotionally abused. But John was a soldier. He took it on the chin and endured it for the sake of the mission. 

Still, even a man of John's strength and stamina couldn't help but begin to crack under the pressure of the constant abuse. And every time, John got a little bit closer to giving up.

But whenever he reached his limit, John remembered a tall, pale figure leaning over him, eyes empty, drowning in the unshed tears. He remembered the broken voice as the figure desperately tried to reach him through the crowd of homeless network that Mycroft had hired to stop him from getting too close. He remembered the exact moment where he had seen his best friend's world collapse around him.

And he remembered that he needed to keep fighting. He needed to get home to fix the life he had destroyed.

He needed to go home to Sherlock.

These thoughts, just remembering gave John the determination to endure everything that was thrown at him.

John was being held in a tiny, decrepit holding cell in Mexico City. He was the prisoner of one of the biggest drug lords under Moriarty's control, who also happened to be the most ruthless and unforgiving of anyone who infiltrated his organisation. It would have been an act of mercy to kill John, but Señor Alvarez was not a merciful man, and seemed intent on dragging John's suffering out for as long as possible.

He was chained to the wall at his hands, making any escape attempts extremely difficult. Usually in these situations, John was locked in the cells and no other attempts to restrain him were made. However, Alvarez was clearly not taking any chances. It probably didn't help that John had earned himself a bit of a reputation among Moriarty's network. Word had travelled fast of the nameless, faceless agent who was talking the organisation apart bit by bit. He was known to be violent, often losing his temper quickly, and leaving no survivors. If he was shown no mercy, John decided he was not going to give any. Besides, this way, there were no loose ends.

The door to his cell slammed open, and two burly looking men shuffled in. John stood as they entered, trying to make himself appear larger and more intimidating. They never went too close to John, afraid of his famous temper. John laughed. How was he supposed to do anything whilst in chains? He wasn't bloody superman for crying out loud.

"The Señor wishes to see you," the shorter of the two said with a heavy Spanish accent.

"Well, you can tell Alvarez that I'm not interested. If he wants to talk, he can bring himself to me." If John was able to, he would have been stood up, hands curled into fists at his side, but the chains prevented him from doing so, he was just relying on his voice to try to intimidate these men.

"He told us you would say this." They exchanged looks, and the taller of the two, and more heavily built, reached his hand into the front of his jacket.

"Gold star for him." John rolled his eyes, sitting back down on the straw stuffed mattress that acted as his bed whilst he was imprisoned here. "I'm not coming."

"That's why he gave us this."

There was a small pricking sensation in John's neck where the hypodermic needle pushed a strong sedative into his system. John immediately felt dizzy, his muscles losing their strength and his eyes drooping with the sudden weariness that overtook John's body.

"Wha-"

Everything went black.

When John woke up, he was no longer chained up. I'm fact, he was sat quite independently on a steel chair. There was a table in front of. Him, where his torso was resting, slumped over. Joy picked his head up, trying to assess the situation. There were two guards stood either side of him, obviously there as a precaution I'm case John decided to pull any stunts. Stupidly, only one of them was armed, and the gun was within John's reach, if he could get his body to cooperate.

"Well, Mr Watson, you put up a good fight."

Alvarez was sat opposite him at an identical chair, eating some sort of local dish which John didn't recognise. They hardly lavished him with expensive and well made food whilst he was imprisoned.

"I wish I could say the same for you, but I'm afraid I can't if you drug your opponent. Not in the spirit of fighting fair is is, Alvarez?"

Alvarez raised an eyebrow at him, finally taking his eyes away from his food. He was a large man, as you'd expect a rich, powerful drug lord who clearly enjoyed the finer things in life - if the room they we currently in was anything to go by - to be. He wiped the corner of his mouth with a delicate, white napkin before speaking again. His accent was not as heavy as those of his employees, but he would be more experienced in the English language, as it would have been an essential part of his drug business. 

"I'm sure you are aware that I do not take kindly to strangers poking their noses into my business."

John - the last of the weariness leaving his body - pulled himself into a full sitting position, looking Alvarez directly in the eye.

"I'm sure you are aware that I do not comply with the wishes of drug lords."

Alvarez leaned forward over the table, moving as closely as possible to John.

"Let me make this perfectly clear to you, Mr Watson." His voice was low, deadly. "We will release you, and you will walk away from us. You will not involve yourself in our affairs any longer, your life depends on it."

"You underestimate me, Alvarez, if you think that I believe my life is anything of value."

John moved quickly. He grabbed the gun from the guard, swiftly putting two bullets into Alvarez's head, and one each in those of the guards at his sides before he could even react. Two more guards ran through the door at the sound of the gun, and John didn't hesitate to shoot them on the spot. Knowing he'd run out of bullets soon, he picked up the guns of the two guards most recently dead.

It took twenty minutes for John to eliminate everyone in the building. Once he was certain there was no one left, John removed his left shoe, taking out the insole to reveal a hollowed out hole with a small mobile phone concealed inside.

He dialled the only number programmed into the device.

"It's done, Mycroft."

"Excellent work, Doctor Watson. Where is Alvarez now?"

"He's dead, Mycroft."

There was a slight pause at the other end of the line as Mycroft processed the news.

"I see. Kill or be killed, was it? Again?"

"Piss off, Mycroft." Josh was not interested in dealing with the eldest Holmes right now. He would much rather be dealing with the younger. God, what John wouldn't give to hear Sherlock complain about how bored he was. "My task was to disarm Alvarez. He's not going to bother you anymore now, is he?" 

"The rest of the team will arrive shortly to clean up."

"If they'd arrived sooner, there wouldn't be a clean up."

"Dear me, Doctor Watson. Your manners really have worsened since you left England."

John pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance.

"Manners are the least of my problems. Now, where am I due to be next?"

"You're booked onto the 4.45am flight to Romania."

John hung up and left the building, just as the rest of his team moved in to deal with the mess John had left behind. He collected his minimal belongings from the safe house, and made his way to the airport. He had an appointment in Romania. As the vehicle Mycroft had sent took him to the airport, John closed his eyes and allowed himself to hope that maybe this time would be the last time, and soon he'd be able to return to his best mate.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock watched the world from the window of 221B. He saw the sun rise and set. He saw the never ending cycle of the moon. He saw as the very air around them changed as London moved through the seasons. He spent nearly an entire year just watching at the window.

He saw life, people going about their daily business, laughing, joking. Their happiness left a hollow feeling in the cavity of Sherlock's chest. These people did not deserve to laugh. These people with their secrets, affairs, drug addictions, stealing, racism and general stupidity. They did not deserve to be happy. The only person Sherlock had ever thought deserved happiness was gone. He'd died believing happiness was impossible. Sherlock would have given anything to be able to prove him wrong.

The sound of his phone stirred him from his thoughts, and Sherlock turned his attention to the incoming text.

It was from Molly.

We still on for tonight? - Molly x

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

If we must - SH

Okay, I'll be over in 5 minutes - Molly x

Molly was insisting on taking Sherlock out to dinner at least once a week. Usually they went to Angelo's, as the food was free and the atmosphere was tolerable. But they stayed well away from the window booth. That was his and John's place there was absolutely no way Sherlock was ever going to let anyone take that place.

As if summoned by the very thought, John appeared behind him - Sherlock could see him reflected in the window - and peered over Sherlock's shoulder to read the messages.

"So, replacing me with Molly, are you?"

Sherlock scoffed and turned to John.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. No-one's replacing you."

Sherlock removed himself from his window perch and transitioned to the significantly more comfortable worn, black, leather armchair which Sherlock had always claimed as his own.

Imaginary John sat opposite him, in the chair that had once belonged to his real-life counterpart.

"Because no-one can, or you don't want anyone to?"

Sherlock considered the question momentarily before answering. "Both." John looked momentarily confused.

"Wow... That's actually... Sweet." His tone made it sound like a question, as if Sherlock had defied the laws of nature by showing just the smallest bit of sentiment.

Sherlock scoffed at John's words and turned his attention to the black and white wallpaper which cover the wall that Sherlock used to use as he wall of evidence. But there hadn't been anything pinned to the wall since John's death.

"I am not 'sweet', don't treat me like a child, John."

John burst into laughter, his giggles echoing around Sherlock's mind, because that is where they existed.

"Sherlock Holmes you're nothing but a big, sentimental softy."

"I'm a high-functioning sociopath, John," Sherlock corrected, still refusing to look at him. "We've established this many times."

John shook his head as his laughter died down.

"I never believed it. Not once."

_Because you were the only one I let see past that, John. You're the only person who ever got close enough to see past the disguise._

"Well, a dead man's beliefs are hardly anything of value."

Sherlock saw John's face contorted in an ugly wince at Sherlock's reply out of the corner of his eye, and a jolt of guilt and sadness rushed through his body. He knew it was just his mind constructing a hallucination based on his extensive knowledge of John's behaviour, mannerisms, speech patterns and idioms.

"Ouch. Ever think of being nice to me for once?"

Sherlock finally turned back to John.

"Not my problem, you're not real." He needed to keep repeating it, almost as if confirming it to himself. The thought was ridiculous. Sherlock was the most intelligent person he knew (except Mycroft, but Sherlock was never going to admit that out loud), and he was well aware that the image of John in front of him was simply that, an image. But that didn't stop the tiny glimmer of hope from planting itself inside Sherlock's mind, and everyday he woke up hope against all hope that today would be the day that John was no longer just a hallucination.

It never happened. So Sherlock made a habit of reminding himself that the John he could see wasn't real.

"That's not the point, Sherlock." John pinched the bridge of his nose, as he would have done if he. Was irritated when he was alive. He let out a long, heavy sigh before promptly changing the subject. "So... Molly. Are you two..?" A sly, curious smile graced his features and he sat more forward in his chair, leaning towards Sherlock.

"Are we what, John? Spit it out."

"You know... Together."

The reply was immediate.

"No."

John leaned back in his chair, relaxing into it as he had done during many lazy evenings in Baker Street when they we're between cases.

"Shame. She seems to have been good for you in these last few months."

Sherlock scoffed again at the very idea.

"Hardly a reason to pursue a relationship. Imagine me trying to start a relationship whilst still trying to get over your death. Recipe for disaster. Sounds like something you would do if it were the opposite way round."

John looked at Sherlock with an expression that was a cross between concern and confusion. Sherlock was well acquainted with it, as it was the expression most people wore when they asked Sherlock how he was, and why wasn't he going outside or accepting cases.

"Trying? No success then?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Not for lack of trying, John. It's been nearly a year, and I still find myself unable to do anything."

John considered this for a moment, before his eyes widened in realisation, and he looked around the flat, taking in the lack of evidence, or experiments.

"Anything? Surely that's a lie. You must have been taking cases."

Sherlock shook his head again.

"No."

"You've not taken any cases? For a year?"

"I can't concentrate."

John let out a breath which sounded like a disbelieving laugh.

"Thank God for Molly otherwise you'd never get out of the flat."

Sherlock scowled, removing himself from his chair and picking up his violin.

"Why does everyone insist I go outside?"

He raised the bow to the strings and began to play. Harsh, frantic, almost manic notes whirled a around the flat. Sherlock did not know what exactly it was he was playing, but he knew that it perfectly reflected his current mood.

"Because it's not healthy to be cooped up in the flat all the time, Sherlock."

John's voice rose above the sounds of angry, desperate violin playing, and Sherlock stopped mudflow and lowered the violin and bow to his side. He considered the reason he didn't want to leave the flat, and closed his eyes to help him concentrate on the overwhelming emotions that enveloped him.he took a deep, steadying breath before talking.

"But you're not out there, John. The only place I can see you is here, in Baker Street. I don't want to be where you are not."

"Have you been to Bart's?"

Eyes still closed, it was all too easy for the image of John, face bloodied, eyes blank, spread out over the crimson streaked concrete outside of Bart's.

"It doesn't take a genius to figure out why I haven't gone back to that place."

"Have you at least done any experiment's?"

Sherlock opened his eyes, meeting John's deep blue ones, shaking his head yet again.

"I find myself rather lacking in enthusiasm for my experiments without you here to scold me."

John raised his hands to Sherlock's face, his thumb running back and forth across Sherlock's cheekbone. Sherlock couldn't feel it, though how could he feel something that wasn't there?

"Jesus. I've broken you."

Not breaking eye contact, Sherlock replied. Meaning every single word.

"Yes. You have broken me, John."

John retracted his hand, as if he was worried that Sherlock would break even further if touched.

"Christ, Sherlock. I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry."

"Apologies are a waste time, John. The words of a dead man hold no meaning and you're simply the product of my imagination."

What Sherlock had failed to observe, was Molly Hooper stood in the doorway. She often walked in on Sherlock talking to what she assumed was his imaginary John. Although she only heard half of the conversation, as the other half was being played out in Sherlock's mind, but what she heard broke her heart. Guilt tugged at her heart, like a rope wrapped around it and squeezing it as tightly as possible. She was partially responsible for Sherlock's anguish. She dug out her phone and quickly typed out a text to the least used number in her contact list.

We need John back, and we needed him back yesterday - Molly x

We are working on the situation Miss Hooper. I assure you he will return as soon as he has completed his task. - MH

I don't care, Mycroft. I'm worried about Sherlock. He's getting worse - Molly x

I'm trying, Molly. No-one wishes for my brothers happiness more than I. Please understand. It'll only take a little while longer. - MH

Fine. How is he? - Molly x

John is in a similar state to my brother. But he has a job to do. He'll be home soon. - MH

Thank you - Molly x


	7. Chapter 7

John's life continued in much the same way since he'd left London. Move to a new location, dismantle the network, move on. Every time he wished that maybe this time would be the final assignment, that he'd get to return home, to see his family, to see his friends, his landlady and most importantly, Sherlock. Mycroft had been withholding information about Sherlock, in the hopes that it would motivate John to work faster. 

It worked.

From Romania he'd gone to Switzerland, and from there to Bangladesh, to Thailand, to Japan, to China, until his most recent destination - Serbia. He never spent any longer than a few weeks in these places, but Serbia was proving to be a bit of a problem. John had been there nearly three months before information of any worth had been given to him. Finally, they had the man they were looking for.

After taking out yet another of Moriarty's associates, John would await his next location, not so secretly hoping that he could go home. He had been very vocal about it. 

Mycroft never got the chance to tell John that Serbia was the last piece of the puzzle.

It had all been going according to plan. Not the official plan carefully devised by Mycroft's team assigned to this particular branch of Moriarty's network, of course, but the plan that John had in his mind and didn't really care if no-one else knew it. John's plan of choice was to barrel into the closely guarded centre of the criminal operation, shoot anyone who got in his way and get the hell out of there, leaving the very often disgruntled and redundant team that John left behind to clean up his mess. 

Bad idea. Worst idea in the history of bad ideas.

John could never have anticipated the shot. Despite being on high alert and taking in as much of his surroundings as he possibly could - which was surprisingly a lot, Sherlock would have been proud of him - he failed to see the assassin hidden in the shadows of the abandoned warehouse where his latest encounter with a high-status Serbian associate was being held.

He didn't even hear the shot, but by God he felt it. Getting shot isn't something that anyone could get used to, and John never wanted to become too familiar with the feeling of a bullet tearing through his flesh. Abdomen this time, closer to the major internal organs, far too close. It felt as if a white hot pain was spreading itself throughout his chest from the point of entry, like the bulling had dissolved into a highly corrosive acid which was now flowing into his bloodstream. All thoughts lefts John's mind, all he could focus on was the pain. His knees buckled under the overwhelming sensations. He couldn't even figure out if the hit had would be fatal. Damaging, most certainly, but fatal? John. Just didn't know. He made a note to ask Mycroft later. 

Then, darkness.

It should have been fatal. Should have been, but wasn't, because John Watson possessed the uncanny ability to always elude death's eternal clutches. 

Knowing by now John's proffered method of dismantling the network Mycroft's team had been prepared to set off much earlier than planned. If they hadn't, John would most certainly have died. They reached the warehouse, first taking out the assassin, judging their position by how John had fallen, before moving to the rest of the organisation in the building. Three members of the team attended to the unconscious army doctor as the team leader contacted Mycroft to inform him of the possible fatality, moving him as quickly as possible to outside of the warehouse.

Help came quickly in the form of a sleek, black helicopter. They bundled John into it gracelessly, more focused on getting him to proper medical attention as soon as possible.

Mycroft had arranged for John to be taken to Bart's, to end it where it had started. John - had he been conscious - would have commented on how dramatic the whole set up was. But Mycroft was a Holmes, and sadly they were very susceptible to a spot of Drama.

He was immediately sent into surgery. The surgeons worked tirelessly to remove the bullet from John's chest, having been informed that this was a very high priority patient. It was very close to his lungs, uncomfortably so. At two points, they could hear the long, loud note which helpfully pointed out that the patient's heart had stopped beating.

Mycroft arrived at Bart's before John had, setting everything up for his stay. It would be at leas two weeks, if he survived. He stood outside the operating theatre, pacing backwards and forwards, anxiety flooding through him.

When he heard John's heart stop, he felt his eon leap into his throat. They could not lose John, it was imperative that he survived, for both his own and Sherlock's sakes. Mycroft would never forgive himself if he was responsible from not only removing John from his life, but also for John's death.

Finally, after nearly five hours, the surgeon approached Mycroft.

"Mycroft Holmes?"

"Yes?" Mycroft looked expectantly at the surgeon, silently preparing himself for the worst.

"He's pulled through. He's still unconscious, but luckily for him, the bullet only caught his lung instead of embedding in it. He'll be here for a while I'm afraid, but in the long run, he'll recover."

Relief - sweet, blessed relief - washed over Mycroft. He left out a sigh. It felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

John was alive.

"What's the extent of the damage?"

"Very slight pulmonary laceration, there's a tear along his lung where the bullet just skimmed it as it entered through his back. Several broken ribs, one of which stopped the bullet from exiting which we've tried our best to reposition in the best way to let them heal and several broken ribs. He'll make a full recovery provided he's on bed rest for at least two weeks and there may be slight scarring over his lungs, he was very lucky. He laceration was only small, so it'll most likely heal by itself. The most trouble we had was getting the bullet out of the rib it was embedded in without causing damage to any other vital organs."

"You're quite sure he'll make a full recovery?" Mycroft trusted medical professionals, of course, but he needed to be absolutely sure.

"It was a minor tear. The laceration itself needed no surgery. However, he will be in quite a bit of pain, but he can breathe, he can talk, he can eat, he's alive. Pulmonary laceration is not associated with long term problems, however, we do recommend that he comes in for a check up a few weeks after he's been discharged, just as a precaution. We'll need to keep an eye on it and make sure it doesn't get infected."

Mycroft slumped back into the wall, scrubbing his hands across his face and through his thinning, reddish hair.

"He was incredibly lucky, a few centimetres to the right and we would probably have lost him. Many people have it a lot worse."

The surgeon walked away after giving Mycroft the number of the private room John was being moved to, understanding that this was a lot for someone to take in nod understood if he didn't get a reply.

After a few minutes of basking in the overwhelming relief, Mycroft made his way to John's room. It was the first time since John had left England that Mycroft had laid eyes on the man. Jon was thinner. Much too thin, and ghostly pale. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his hair was most definitely grey rather than the ashy blonde it used to be. He looked like a corpse, and had narrowly avoided being so. 

Luckily, quietness and efficiency didn't make up for accuracy in the case of the Serbian assassin. Not that he was alive to defend himself.

After stating at John a moment longer, Mycroft fished his phone out of the pocket of his immaculate jacket.

He's home. He's at Bart's with a gunshot wound, minor tear on his lung, currently unconscious. Room 207. - MH

Across London in Angelo's, Molly's phone chimed in her pocket. As she read it, she dropped the glass of wine in her hand covered her mouth with the recently emptied hand. Tears sprung to her eyes at the news of John's injury, but he was home.

Sherlock's eyes snapped up to her raiding an eyebrow at her reactions.

Molly quickly grabbed his hand, and without a word lead him from their table, out into the street and hailed a cab, giving instructions for the cabbie to get them to Bart's as quickly as possible.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock had no idea what was happening. It was an odd sensation, not one he was used to and not one he wanted to feel again.

Molly said nothing to him as they sat in the cab, occasionally bumping shoulders as they turned a corner.

They were going to Bart's, Molly was clearly shocked, that was all he could read from the situation.

He'd found that his abilities of deduction had somewhat vanished after John's death. Prolonged shock, Molly had said. He'd still not leave that flat for anything other than his dinners with Molly. It wasn't that he particularly enjoyed them, but he knew everyone would stop fussing as long as he left the flat at least once a week. Molly's company was tolerable, if not a little annoying as her persistent infatuation with him reared it's head every now and again. But Sherlock didn't mind that in exchange for keeping everyone else, particularly Mycroft at bay. And they got a free meal out of it, Angelo still insisting that everything they ate was on the house.

But there was a strange sense of anticipation that was sitting uncomfortably in Sherlock's stomach. 

He'd been in a dreamlike state all day. He did not consciously register ever waking up or doing anything that morning. He'd dreamed of John the night before, of his fall - as Sherlock still refused to believe that John had jumped. Reliving what happened usually made Sherlock's state of shock much worse, and that day had been no exception. Imaginary John had tried to get him to talk, as John would have if he were alive. 

The result of all of this was the loss of deductive reasoning and just general ability to be his usual self.

The cab pulled up to Bart's and Molly got out, holding the door open for Sherlock to follow. He didn't. He couldn't look outside of the window. He knew if he did, all he'd see is John's corpse lying broken and bloodied on the concrete.

Why did Molly bring him here, of all places?

A gentle hand on his arm was enough to move him, himself not being in control of his own body. 

Once Molly had guided him through the front entrance, she whispered a number in his ear and gave him a general nudge in the direction of one of Bart's many corridors.

Sherlock's legs moved without his permission, his body acting before his mind had had a chance to catch up. He had no idea where he was going, until he reached a closed door and his hand was on the handle.

Without conscious thought, Sherlock pushed open the door.

Obviously he hadn't woken up, he was in fact still dreaming, and the lightness and dream-like state was just a result of him still being unconscious. Sherlock know that this wasn't real because inside the room, lying on the bed was John.

Of all the hateful fantasies his mind had conjured of John, this was the worst. He'd seen John alive, happy, smiling. He'd talked to him, laughed with him, argued with him, everything they'd done together when John actually was alive. He'd seen John dead, his corpse spread out on a concrete pavement. But not this. Never had his mind been so cruel.

The John he saw was alive - just. He was obviously unconscious, but breathing. A monitor to the side of him helpfully tracked his pulse in irritatingly high-pitched beeps that jumped at a constant rhythm, but the rhythm was slower than it should have been. There were several tubes protruding from him. One was coming from a bag of muddy-red coloured liquid - a blood transfusion. One was a clear coloured with a machine attached so you were able to adjust the dosage if they needed to - some sort of pain relief, probably morphine. And one tube was inserted into his mouth and most probably down his airways to help him breathe. He was deathly pale, nearly as pale as Sherlock himself, which was no mean feat. His eyes were closed, and judging by the dark circles beneath them it was the first time they had been in a very long time. He was so much thinner, looking even more like a corpse than the image of him broken and bleeding at the foot of the hospital. He was wearing the standard issue hospital gown, but Sherlock could clearly make out the bandages underneath, wrapped around his chest. He was covered in the faded blue, green and yellow of old bruises, all of varying size, and there were several scars along his arms that John didn't have which were a sign of recent combat, self defence perhaps. 

If he were conscious, or even real, he would have been in intense pain. Sherlock was relieved that this was a fantasy. He would never wish this upon his friend, and John definitely had never deserved to end up in such a state.

He moved over to the image of John on the hospital bed, taking up the seat beside him. Sherlock bought his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs, holding them on the chair with him. He rested his chin on his knees, like he did when he was a boy, and studied this newer version of the late army doctor that his mind was torturing him with. 

There was a shuffling outside in the corridor. Sherlock turned his head towards the door only to see his brother walk through, watching him wearily, as if afraid he'd collapse or start a riot if he wasn't careful. Sherlock supposed that this was the end of his dream. Odd. Sherlock did not often dream of Mycroft.

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

"I would have thought that was glaringly obvious. Do use your eyes, Sherlock."

"It's not real, none of this is. If it were, John would not be lying there. John's dead and I need to wake up. I have plans with Molly."

Sherlock walked up to John and gently reached out his hand to brush along the limp one lying by John's side. 

It felt warm. And solid.

Sherlock frowned, his eyebrows pinching together. Warm? Solid? He continued to run his hand up along John's arm. The feeling of warmth and solidity never faded.

"You're a deduced, Sherlock. Deduce." Mycroft watched as his baby brother tried to piece it all together.

A nurse entered the room, nodding to Mycroft as she did so, me then proceeded to check John's vitals.

"He's still stable. The anaesthesia should have worn off by now so he's just resting. He'll wake up when he's ready. When he does we'll remove the tube and let him breathe for himself." The nurse was proficient, and her explanations were to the point. Mycroft thanked her and she exited the room. 

Sherlock did not look as if he had registered a single word she had said. In truth, he hadn't. His hand still rested on John's solid arm. Sherlock had never been able to touch John in his dreams, he'd always vanish before he could. And heat was a sensation his mind was never able to replicate in his subconscious.

He took John's hand in both of his, encasing it gently, protectively.

Once you have illuminated the impossible, whatever remains must be the truth.

Sherlock thought back over the past year.

Mycroft's indifference. Molly's determination to make sure he's okay, and the guilt he'd seen lurking in her eyes. The suddeness of John's depression and suicidal thoughts. The man lying in front of him, broken and bruised. 

Conclusion: he was not dreaming.

John Watson, his best and only friend in the world, was not dead. 

Not dead.

Alive.

Breathing.

Living.

He gasped in a breath he did not realise he had been depriving himself of. John was alive, John was here, John was hurt.

"Oh, God." There was moisture in his eyes and he did nothing to prevent the tears from spilling over. His knees gave way as he dropped to the floor, hands still clasping John's desperately.

"Easy," Mycroft whispered as he moved to support his brother as he fell. Sherlock's eyes never left John's face as he gave over to his emotions and began to weep. As Mycroft rubbed calming circles into Sherlock's back, kneeling with him on the floor by John's bedside, Sherlock began to consider just why his brother was here, and how Molly had known to bring him.

As he thought, he reached a further conclusion.

John Watson, his best had only friend in the world, had never died.

Furthermore: Mycroft and Molly had known.


	9. Chapter 9

“You knew.”

Sherlock’s voice was barely more than a whisper. However, the other noise being the whirring and beeping of the machines that John was currently relying on, Mycroft had no problems hearing the words as they travelled across the room to reach him. He had not turned his gaze from the pale, unconscious figure on the bed.

“Sherlock-”

“You _knew._ ”

Sherlock turned his head, staring at the white linoleum hospital flooring. He could see Mycroft in his peripheral vision, hovering worriedly at the edge of the room. At the accusation, he visibly stiffened, all colour drained from his face and he looked – dare Sherlock say it? – utterly terrified. Sherlock watched as Mycroft closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, preparing himself for what he was about to reveal.

“Yes.”

The one word rang out as clear as a bell. The one word caused Sherlock to see red, and tune out everything as it continued to swirl and echo around his head. Yes, Mycroft had known. Yes, Mycroft had sent John away. Mycroft had let John get hurt. And he hadn’t said a word to Sherlock.

“ _Get out._ ”

If Mycroft Holmes had seemed terrified before, it had been absolutely nothing compared to the look on his face as Sherlock spat these words with as much venom as a man could.

“Brother mine-”

“ _Don’t._ ”Sherlock cut him off immediately. In a flurry of curly hair, black coat and fury, Sherlock was on his feet, striding towards Mycroft, brining himself to his full height and looming with a great sense of malice over his older brother. Mycroft had never seen Sherlock look so angry. No, not just angry. He looked betrayed, hurt, desperate. “You knew he was out there, alone. You allowed him to get hurt, Mycroft. You’re the reason he’s in this state. Both you and Miss Hooper.”

There had surely never been so much ice, or viciousness in an accusation. Mycroft knew that some of his barbs Sherlock and he had exchanged in their verbal duelling matches could have been considered hurtful, but the way his brother regarded him now, was like a physical pain in Mycroft stomach. He had never seen such hatred, for it could not be mistaken. At this moment, Sherlock Holmes hated Mycroft, positively loathed him. He took another deep breath, trying to keep himself calm in the face of his baby brother’s emotional collapse.

“John had adequate means of-”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock might as well have shouted for all the effect his voice was having on Mycroft, but instead he whispered, his voice deadly and low, “for your own safety I advise you to leave the room now because I will not stop myself from hurting you.”

Sherlock’s eyes were full of tears, tears of anger, tears of sadness, of pain. Sherlock always had been the more emotional of the two brothers.

Mycroft’s face softened at his brother’s threats. Sherlock had always made threats like this, even when they were growing up, but he had never followed through on any of them.

“I don’t believe that, Sherlock.”

He took a step towards his brother, extending his arm to comfort him. He was met with a strong and painful punch to the nose.

“Well, you’d be wrong then.”

Mycroft stumbled back, clutching at his face. Blood poured freely from his nose, which Mycroft was sure was broken. There were tiny droplets of the deep red liquid on the floor, contrasting dramatically with the pristine, immaculate white of the flooring.

As Mycroft began to straighten up, Sherlock aimed another punch at his chin. Mycroft quickly released his nose, hands flying out to capture the fist flying towards his face. As soon as his hands wrapped around it and prevented it from further damaging his face, Sherlock’s other fist collided with his stomach.

Winded, Mycroft dropped to the floor, arms and hands now wrapped protectively around his middle as Sherlock aimed another punch at him.

It was at this point, luckily for Mycroft, that two of the nurses assigned to John’s care chose to walk into the room. Upon seeing the almost feral detective attacking his brother, the both ran to restrain Sherlock whilst calling for help. Immediately two other nurses on their rounds ran through the door, closely followed by a sturdily built doctor. The nurses quickly ran to Mycroft, checking over for any major injuries and hurridly escorting him out of the room. The doctor ran to calm Sherlock down, who was still struggling against the nurses to reach his brother.

As the concerned nurses tugged Mycroft into the corridor, Mycroft heard his brother snarl over the requests by the doctor to calm down.

“ _Stay away from us._ I want _nothing_ to do with you. _You_ did this, Mycroft. _You did this_.”

When Mycroft had left the room and the door had shut behind him, Sherlock finally stopped struggling. His muscles went slightly slack, however there was still overriding tension throughout his whole body.

As he breathed deeply, he managed to shrug the nurses hold from his arms and shoulders and with a protest of “I’m fine,” straightened his coat and jacket before turning back to the impossible sight of John Watson, alive and breathing on the bed before him. He took the seat next to the bed, continually staring at the face of his best friend. He barley even noticed as the doctor checked over John’s condition, or as one of the nurses cleaned up his knuckles, which was covered in a layer of his own and Mycroft’s blood.

“John. You’re alive. You’re real.”

He reached over the bed to take one of the ex-army doctor’s hands in his newly bandaged ones. As he enclosed it in his hold, he bought John’s hand up to his forehead as he rested his elbows on the edge of the bed. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut against the tears that had been threatening to spill over the entire exchange with Mycroft finally slipped gracefully over two well defined and sculptured cheekbones.

“A miracle, John. Thank you,” he whispered to his friend, bringing his hand down to his mouth, and gently placing his lips over the bony, near skeletal knuckles of John’s hand. The action bought him some comfort, and he allowed himself to relax slightly more.

Sherlock stayed staring at John’s face for hours, until the sun began to rise through the window. Just as London was waking itself back up, did Sherlock allow himself to relax, and eventually his eyes closed and he succumbed to sleep’s clutches, slumped over the bed, safe in the knowledge that John was alive, and still grasping John’s hand within both of his own.

When Mycroft had been cleaned up slightly by the insistent and, in his opinion, highly irritating nurses, Mycroft was accosted by Molly Hooper, who had been waiting anxiously for news regarding to the detective and the army doctor since their arrival here several hours previously.

“How is he? How’s John?”

Mycroft sighed, an action that caused a slight twinge of pain through his recently re-set nose. The bruising would certainly be impressive.

“He’s stable. Minor laceration to a lung. No permanent damage.”

Molly’s shoulders slumped in relief, and a tiny smile graced her features. This was wiped away soon, as she regarded Mycroft worriedly.

“And Sherlock? How’s he?”

“It’s best to leave Sherlock alone, Miss Hooper. Sherlock is recovering from a large shock. It has caused him to become quite violent.” Mycroft motioned towards his injuries.

“I should go and see if he’s okay. Maybe I can calm him down.”

Molly looked past Mycroft’s shoulder in the direction of John’s room and made to move past him. Mycroft laid a gentle, yet firm hand on her shoulder, not wanting to scare the young pathologist, but still to prevent her from perusing his brother.

“Inadvisable. He seems to be holding both you and I as personally responsible for Doctor Watson’s injuries. He is not in the best state of mind. Leave him be, not only for his safety, but for your own too. I know that should Sherlock cause you harm whilst he is emotionally compromised, neither Doctor Watson, or himself will forgive him for it when he’s recovered.”

Molly’s eyes filled with tears and her hands flew to her mouth as she suppressed a sob. Knowing that Sherlock currently blamed her for John’s state, and that there was a strong possibility that the strong friendship that she had formed with the tall, dark and alluring detective might be shattered beyond repair was surely breaking poor Miss Hooper’s heart.

She took a few moments to collect herself, before looking up at Mycroft with her wide and tear filled eyes, looking utterly helpless. “

Oh, God. What can we do, Mycroft?”

“For now, we must let them alone. It’s unwise for either of us to be in direct contact with Sherlock, and he will most likely not let us contact John either.” Mycroft thought momentarily. “I will employ the services of a mediator. Someone close to Sherlock enough for him to trust them, and someone who was equally in the dark about Doctor Watson’s state of being. Hopefully this person will allow us to communicate to Sherlock and John, and will be happy to help us talk him round.”

“Can you think of anyone?”

“I can think of one individual who would possibly assist us. However, it is likely that he too will be emotionally compromised, so expect more hostility before things begin to get better, Miss Hooper.”

Molly looked up at Mycroft hopefully.

“Do you really think this person can help?”

“He’s the best chance we have.” He pulled out his phone from his pocket, excusing himself from Molly’s company and gesturing to his phone by way of explanation, before bringing the device up to his ear and walking smoothly down the corridor, away from Molly and towards the entrance of the hospital.

The phone rang four times before the person on the receiving end decided to pick up.

“Who is this and why the bloody hell are you calling at _this_ time of night?”

“Ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade. This is Mycroft Holmes, and I require a favour of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! 
> 
> Sorry it's been a while since the last update! Hopefully this chapter isn't too disappointing. Thank you so much for staying with me whilst this story sat dormant for a bit! As always, comments, criticisms, suggestions, requests are all welcome so please feel free to leave them! Hopefully it won't be too long before the next chapter, so hang in there guys!
> 
> Love you loads,   
> Scarlett xx


	10. Chapter 10

Greg struggled to catch his breath as he hurtled through the corridors of the hospital, noting the number of the rooms as he passed them.

_204…_

_205…_

_206…_

A slim, suited figure blocked his way to room 207. A figure who had told him John was dead, had let him believe he was dead.

Mycroft had explained everything over the phone to Greg. The fall, the missions, and his current condition. After he had hung up, the greying DI had been in a state of shock. However, this had not stopped him from shooting out of his door, into his car and straight to Bart’s.

Now here Mycroft stood, bold as brass, looking for all the world like he wasn’t responsible for the misery of a great many people. John Watson was well loved by all who had met him (criminals they apprehended excluded), and they had all felt his loss acutely.

But it wasn’t real. They had been lied to, left to grieve, and Mycroft hadn’t done a damn thing about it.

_"I assure you, Detective Inspector, the situation will resolve itself eventually."_

Mycroft’s words had echoed in his mind over the entire journey to Bart’s. _Damn him. Damn him straight to hell._

Greg had kept his fury buried deep under the surface, focusing instead on the fact that John Watson was alive, and Sherlock was with him, just as they always should have been. But he promised himself that if he ever saw the smug, smarmy face of a certain government official, he wouldn’t hold himself back.

And that same face was the only thing between him and his not-dead friend.

“Ah, Detective Inspector, I’m glad you could come so quick-“

Mycroft was cut off by the fist that had connected with his jaw. Having already been punched several times already this evening as a result of his deception, Mycroft should really have seen it coming. But he did nothing to prevent the attack.

The force behind the Detective Inspector’s punch threw him into the nearest wall. Cupping his chin, Mycroft winced as the pain registered. He was mildly impressed by the hidden strength of Lestrade.

As he had seen on Sherlock’s face earlier, a cold fury had settled over Lestrade’s features, all aimed at Mycroft.

“You utter, utter _bastard_ ,” Greg snarled, a dark shadow crossing his features. “You let us grieve. You knew this whole time and you didn’t tell us.”

He took a step forward and Mycroft instinctively shied away, anticipating another blow, but Lestrade just leaned forward, close enough to whisper in his ear, grabbing his shirt to prevent him pulling away from his words.

“You let Sherlock waste away. You _knew_ what losing John would do to him, you _knew_ it would break him, and you _let it happen_. Everything that’s happened over these months, everything your brother has suffered, is _entirely your fault_.”

Greg let go of Mycroft, looking absolutely disgusted, before pushing through the door into the room where John was being held.

Mycroft sighed. Clearly it was going to take a while for his plan to become effective. It was unlikely that Sherlock was ever going to come around anytime soon, and Lestrade was going to need time. But it was their best hope. The Inspector was a reasonable man, and if anyone could bring Sherlock to forgive his brother, it would be Greg. But it looked like there was a long road ahead.

He pulled out his phone, sending Molly an update on their situation. A tearful phonecall later from the pathologist, Mycroft succeeded in reassuring Molly that everything would be absolutely fine. It would just take a little longer than expected.

*** 

Greg only made it a few steps into the room before stopping short at the sight that lay before him. He could have cried, not only at the sight of John lying there, alive and breathing, but at the image of Sherlock, slumped next to him, hands clasped firmly around John’s, sleeping more peacefully for probably the first time since this whole ordeal began, comforted by the continual warmth that was John Watson, reassuring him, even in sleep, that he was really here. 

John Watson was, well, as one might have expected experiencing a close brush with death. Pale, thin, broken and covered with wires. This was obviously not the same John Watson that had left them behind. Just as the man curled around his hand was not the same Sherlock Holmes that John had left behind.

Holmes reunited with Watson, the detective and his blogger. Greg smiled and the world seemed to right itself. It was still a pretty messed up situation, and not one he would ever have included himself in willingly, but something about seeing both Sherlock and John together again seemed to make all of that irrelevant.

A nurse bustle into the room, moving efficiently past Greg as if he wasn’t even there and began to check John’s vitals, as well as adjust some of the machinery that he was plugged into. She tutted disapprovingly at the form of Sherlock lying with his head on the bed, and moved to wake him.

“No,” Greg cried out and the nurse froze. “No, please, just let them be. They’ve been separated for far too long and he’s not slept since…” He broke off, voice cracking, thick with emotion at the thought of either of them being apart from each other again. The nurse looked conflicted, but upon hearing the pain in Greg’s voice, decided to leave Sherlock be, and quietly left the room.

There would be awkward conversations to come, Greg was sure of it, but overall he knew that John and Sherlock would be happy to see each other again. Well, as happy as you could get in the situation.

Sherlock would have surely developed some trust issues regarding not just his brother, but also Molly and even John. They would have to work through that, and Greg would fully support Sherlock through that. After seeing him suffer so much, Greg wanted what was best for him, no matter what that was. Greg himself knew that he would need time to bring himself around to the situation and accept the fact that he’d been deceived by one of his best friend’s in one of the worst ways possible. Of course, he could get over it, and begin rebuilding the bridges with John and Molly, maybe even Mycroft.

But now he was content to bask in the euphoria of John being alive, and definitely not dead.

It was with these thoughts that stepped fully into the room, pulling up a chair on the opposite side of the bed to Sherlock and proceeded to wait for one, or both of them to wake up. 


	11. Chapter 11

Consciousness returned to John slowly, and the realisation of his location even slower. Hospital. Ugh, John hated hospitals when he was the one regaining consciousness on the hospital bed. The lights were often too bright and let off an irritating buzzing noise that never seemed to stop. John could just hear it above the sound of the monitor that was measuring his pulse. He could feel the tug of several needles in his arms, probably some sort of pain relief – most likely morphine – which was why he wasn’t feeling any pain at the moment. Coming down from that would be absolute hell later, but John was grateful for it now.

After establishing that he was most definitely in a hospital, John tired to think back to establish a reason for him being there in the first place.

Serbia. He hadn’t waited for backup. He’d bee shot. Hence the hospital and the pain killers. Shot twice, John prayed he’d never reach the lucky number three. Hopefully his new wound hadn’t got infected and left such a large scar as the one on his shoulder.

Right, now to establish his condition.

Breathing, breathing’s good, and he was managing to do it without the aid of any apparatus, so the likely hood of him being in a coma was low. Excellent, less chance of any brain damage – although John wait until a discussion with another professional before being absolutely certain.

John could feel his arms and legs, also a good sign. He tried to flex his fingers, but could only manage a tiny movement. The was a warmth wrapped around on of his hands, with something light and fluffy tickling an area just above his hand on his wrist. The grip on his hands tightened after the miniscule movement of his fingers, and the tickly, fluffy thing vanished. Unfortunately John couldn’t identify it without opening his eyes.

His eyes felt glued together, and he felt too tired to put the effort into opening them. Screw it, John thought. After what he’d been through he deserved to rest for an extraordinarily long time, he had earned it.

A voice above John seemed to have other ideas.

“John…”

_No, let me sleep._

“John, open your eyes, I know you can hear me.”

 _Would that voice please shut up, I’m trying to rest_.

“John, you’re mumbling, just open your eyes.”

“Sod off.”

“Not the most elegant first words to me, John, but I’ll take whatever you can give me.”

“Christ John, you’ve not changed a bit.” A gruffer, more weathered voice joined the first.

“John, open your eyes.”

_Fine. Stupid, demanding voice telling me what to do._

“You’re mumbling again John.”

“Gimme a break, I just got shot.”

“Yes, about that, you’re not allowed to go off without me ever again.”

With extraordinary effort, John managed to open his eyes, only to be instantly assaulted by a blinding light. He blinked a few times as he adjusted, and a shadow moved across his vision helpfully blocking the intrusive light.

John continued to blink until he regained his focus on the world around him.

“John…”

John followed the baritone rumble, which was vaguely recognisable, and yet his mind was in no state to remember immediately. The fuzzy outline of the person before him began to sharpen, and soon John was able to make out a set of well defined cheekbones, a narrow, aristocratic looking face, piercing bluey-greeny-slivery eyes all surrounded by a halo of dark curls.

“Sherlock…”

Sherlock’s face broke into quite possibly the largest, most genuine smile John had ever seen on the detective’s face.

“Hello, John.”

John struggled to sit upright, and as soon as he did, immediately pulled the consulting detective to him, hugging him tightly, never wanting to let go. Sherlock too wrapped his arms around John’s middle, being mindful of the bandages and injuries that John had sustained.

Christ he had missed his best friend. He felt hot tears come to his eyes, and from the sniffling sound coming from the face tucked into his neck, and the wetness that was quickly absorbing into his hospital gown, John deduced that Sherlock was in a similar state.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice cracked with emotion, almost broken, and John realised how much Sherlock had hurt during his time away. Guilt bubbled hot an thick within John’s veins, spreading and filling him. John clutched tighter at Sherlock’s jacket. He brought one hand up to the riotous curls adorning the detective’s head, smoothing his hands through them, comforting Sherlock.

“It’s okay, Sherlock, I’m here. I’m here. I’m never leaving you again. I promise.”

Sherlock began to sob, great, painful sobs wracked through his body, shaking both him and John to their very cores.

“You can’t leave me again John. I thought I’d lost you. I thought I’d lost you. I can’t lose you John, please.”

“Shh, it’s okay, Sherlock. I’m here, I won’t leave. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

John continued to cradle Sherlock to him, tears streaming down both of their faces, continuing to whisper reassurances to each other, to reaffirm that they were both here, both still alive, and that they’d never be leaving each other again.

Greg stood to the side, unwilling to interrupt this precious reunion. He was trying to blink back tears of his own but it was a useless effort. It was clear to anyone with a pair of eyes how much the two men had missed each other, how broken each of them had become during their separation, and how dearly they needed each other. He returned to his seat, continuing to watch the two. Between the mumblings, Greg was able to make out the words from Sherlock.

“I still can’t believe your first words to me were ‘sod off’.”

John pulled back to look at Sherlock in the eyes, a look of utter disbelief on his face. They stared at each other for a good few moments, before suddenly bursting into a fit of giggles. Their laughter continued, and Sherlock moved to rest his forehead against John’s, the laughter dying off, but big smiles upon both their faces. 

 _Home_ , John thought, _I’m finally home_.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft watched the reunion from the window. At the sight of the two men together, Mycroft stepped back, and made his way down the corridor. Officially his work was done. John had come home; both men were safe, Moriarty’s web dissolved.

 

But he knew that the _hard_ work was only just about to begin.


End file.
